| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** KARL KOWESKI: I'm a 34 year old displaced Chicagoan, now living on top of a mountain in Alabama for reasons that involve a woman. I was the lead singer/banjo player of the now defunct country/punk/disco band The Screaming Shits. Now I just work in a machine shop and write articles for porno mags. |
 |
 |
| © 2009 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
| Home |
| Submit |
| A Pimp Called Polack |
| by Karl Koweski |
| It was Justin’s twenty first birthday and our plan involved getting the goofy bastard shit-faced on whiskey and get his carrot waxed by a woman with a waist. His first, last and only girlfriend did not possess a waist, or ankles, or even much of a neck. Justin managed to extricate himself from that relationship by getting caught masturbating on three consecutive nights. Each time she entered the room, Justin managed to change the channel but not tuck himself back in. So the first night, he was caught beating it to Master of the Flying Guillotine. The third night, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.
I didn’t trust Justin. He couldn’t grow a mustache to save his life and he couldn’t keep his eyes off mine. The morning of his birthday, he placed two phone calls to Big Dog and Stretch, the other members of our crew. I got no phone call. He wasn’t groovy enough to partake of my digits. The news came from Big Dog. “Hammer. Justin called. He ain’t coming.” “What do you mean ‘he ain’t coming’? It’s his birthday.” “He met a girl.” “What do you mean ‘he met a girl’? When?” “Last night.” “He met a girl last night where?” “On the telephone.” “How the fuck you meet a girl on the telephone, Big Dog?” “It’s Tina from work’s daughter. She gave him her daughter’s number. Guess they talked all night. And she don’t like titty flops.” “What do you mean ‘she don’t like titty flops’? She ain’t invited; she don’t hafta like them.” “Apparently her opinion counts for something with Justin.” “Goddam. And now he ain’t going to his own twenty-first birthday bash? He’s going to give up titties and beer and hard liquor and my exquisite conversational skills cause he talked to some ginch on the telephone.” “Why don’t you call him, Polish? Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” “No. I refuse to talk to him on the phone. Goddammit, man. This goofy bastard would be happy jerking off to Shaolin Monks for the rest of his life. I celebrated my twenty-first birthday for two thousand, one hundred and ninety consecutive days without respite. I still can’t stand straight for extended periods of time. And I’m fucking thirty-four.” “You know what I did for my twenty-first birthday?” Big Dog asked. “Blew a herd of goats?” “No, I don’t remember. But it wasn’t that. I don’t remember what I did cause I got so fucked up, you know… Why you gotta be such a dick sometimes, when I’m trying to set up a punchline?” “Sorry, Big Dog, it’s the only way I know how to deal with the world.” “Well, we still gotta go to Fantasm’s and play with some titties. With or without Justin.” “I agree. The Polish Hammer doesn’t need an excuse to help naked women make their car payments.” I had begun drinking Thursday afternoon during my lunch break at the factory. By the time Stretch picked me up at the mobile mansion Saturday evening I was feeling social. “That’s some bullshit about Justin, ain’t it?” He greeted me. I agreed, noticing with a dour fatalism that Stretch wore his usual club gear. Alabama Crimson Tide T-shirt and Wrangler jeans. I knew when we stopped at Big Dog’s place, I’d be seeing another University of Alabama T-shirt and some more Wrangler jeans. And then there was me. A Pimp Called Polack dressed in sharply pressed black slacks, a black shirt with collars like dragon wings and a pimp hat of the blackest pitch and a feather of the bloodiest scarlet so bad ass, you’d swear the devil himself was rocking a bare crown tonight. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “Then I guess you can get out and walk and talk about whatever you feel like talking about while you’re footing it.” “In that case, it is some bullshit about Justin.” “Yes it is.” Stretch’s strip joint mix jolted the speakers. We went from Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me” to Lynard Skynard’s “Curtis Lowe” to Monster Magnet’s “Unbroken”. After picking up Big Dog (wearing exactly what I prophesized) we stopped at Windmill Liquors and bought Justin’s birthday present. We stopped outside the liquor store doors and Big Dog withdrew the Crown Royal from its pouch and broke the seal. “Happy birthday, cocksucker.” Big Dog raised the bottle and took a long swallow. He passed the bottle to me. I raised it. “May my heart be strong enough to resist the pretty faces I see. May my liver be stout enough to filter the chemicals I imbibe. May the ladies be weak enough to swallow my line of bullshit and whatever else might come their way.” I closed the bottle with my thumb and turned it up. Stretch took the bottle, saluted, and said “I can’t believe this shit. Is that Justin?” Justin’s rusty tan and brown Bronco slouched three parking spaces away. I could have mistaken the girl seated beside him for an Crimson Tide linebacker had Big Dog not known the Bama players, three deep, and how fast each one ran the forty. Justin’s eyes popped open and he stared at us through the windshield in unmitigated horror. I faced him so he could get the full view of my mustache. Before we could make a move on him, the counter jockey busted slammed open the liquor door to a Christmas gala of tinkling bells. “You can’t drink that out here. What the fuck’s wrong with you? I’m calling the cops.” “Oh goddam,” Stretch hollered. He took a quick pull from the CR and ran for the truck. There was no time to wait for Big Dog to pile into the passenger seat. I dived into the bed of the truck, letting my face take the brunt of the impact. Stretch fishtailed the truck onto the boulevard and I got to rattle my head across the truck lining like a goddam casaba melon bounced down a back country road. Horns blared. Tires screeched. I bit at the truck liner in an attempt to keep my head stationary. And just when it seemed we were going to accordion ourselves between a couple massive diesel trucks, Stretch skidded into the Fantasm parking lot as Kid Rock’s “Low Life” blared from the truck speakers. Once Stretch killed the engine, I stood up, brushed myself off, replaced the pimp hat upon my knotted pimp head and stepped down from the truck. “Damn, Hammer,” Stretch said, “you bleeding from the ear?” “I’m fine. Ain’t nothing a few titties rubbed against my face won’t cure.” Actually, I probably had a concussion, but the steady influx of beer, whiskey and tabs ensured I wouldn’t be feeling anything, any time. The gorilla at the door flexed his muscles on Big Dog and Stretch’s behalf. He knew better to attempt to cower me with a show of strength. It ain’t nothing for the Main Man of Superior Grooviness to take an ass whipping. We paid our five dollar cover charge, flashed our ID and signed names to the register. The fellas wrote names of our religious co-workers. I signed off as “A Pimp Called Polack” to give these fools an idea of who they’re dealing with. We took our accustomed seats near center stage beneath the air conditioning duct. This is very important because I tend to sweat a lot when the ladies are naked and I am not, which, for me, is as unnatural a state as Delaware . We grabbed some beers and exchanged our high cards for a bunch of low ones. We drank the beers and made pervert row excursions where we played our low cards for pairs of tits and the vague promise of getting the one-eyed jack in the hole later in the night. My go-to girl, Amy, no longer worked the poles here. I knew her mother, and for a while, Amy exchanged quickies for my silence. I told twenty or thirty guys at work about my sweet arrangement and somehow word got back to her mother who put a stop to the shenanigans. Angela took the stage, followed by Scarlett, Delia, Rose, Cold Cash… The Superheroes of Snatch. And one by one, we the citizens of Perville presented the ladies our gratitude in dollar bill increments. Strangely, the ladies failed to recognize me by any of my aliases: The Polish Hammer, The Main Man of Superior Grooviness, A Pimp Called Polack, The Goddam Alabama AntiChrist, The Thin-haired Stranger, The Mustachioed Maestro of Vaginal Mayhem, The Motel Room Proctologist, The Unknown Legend, The Gynecological Existentialist and His Five Inch Anarchist. I might as well have been just another miserably married chronic masturbator to these g-string maneaters. And then Samara took the stage, and the population of Perville withered to nothing quicker than a queer’s cock at a muff-diving convention. She might have been mistaken for a bouncer if she hadn’t been wearing the bikini. It was a zebra print and looked to have taken two zebras to make it. But the way she chased the other animals away from the watering hole, I think a tiger print would have been more appropriate. If she was embarrassed by the sudden exodus of dollar bill slinging jackasses, she didn’t show it. “C’mon, Big Dog,” I said. “Let’s go give her a dollar.” Big Dog, who’d been hemorrhaging dollars as though his wallet were a pierced jugular vein shook his head. “I ain’t giving her a motherfucking thing. Except maybe my sympathy. And by sympathy I mean disgust.” I turned to Stretch, but he made it a point to turn his back to the stage. I cocked my pimp hat at an even jauntier angle. “The Aviator of the Pink Skies Between Her Thighs has no problem flying solo.” “All right then,” Stretch answered. I withdrew my two dollar tithe and approached the altar of undulating cellulite. When she shook her ass, everything shook… the chandeliers hanging off the ceiling, the potted plants, the beers on my table. And I liked it. Sensing my monetary interest, she went all out. She launched herself at the pole as though it were a brass all-you-can-eat buffet and spun around from top to bottom until she landed in the splits so hard the pole vibrated a full twenty seconds like a steak knife thrown and embedded in a beef shank. Now here’s a woman, I thought, who could put a hurting on me. I handed her two bucks and she revealed her busted titties. I nodded solemnly as if she’d just passed a test. A compliance to gravity test, perhaps. I returned to my chair between Stretch and Big Dog only to find it occupied by a skinny blonde girl with gray teeth and shoulder acne. I decided against upending the chair with her in it. I was getting older and it was taking me longer to recuperate after tasings. “I think she digs me,” I said hooking a thumb over my shoulder. “Of course she does,” Big Dog said without a hint of mocking… that I could detect, “you’re the Pimp Called Polack.” “Goddam right I am.” I looked at the blonde but she continued staring dully at my rhinestone encrusted, dollar sign belt buckle. I sat down at the adjoining table. Samara joined me in a flash of black and white stripes and stretch marks. “Can you get me a beer, I’m thirsty.” Goddam, I just gave you two dollars, I thought. What I said was, “it’d be my pleasure.” When the beers came to nine dollars, what I thought was: goddam, that’s some highway robbery bullshit. What I said was “that’s the last beer you’re getting from me.” Samara sipped her beer. “You wanna go upstairs, honey?” she asked. “And do what?” Her eyes narrowed. “You a cop?” “No, I ain’t a cop. I’m the Red Star Macaw of the Feathered Fornicators, baby.” “What does that even mean?” “Ummm… I ain’t a cop.” “Ok. We go upstairs, it’s eighty dollars for a room for five songs. You want a half and half, it’s another hundred bucks.” “A hundred and eighty for a suck and fuck!” “Shhhhhh… Yeah. Quiet. Not so loud.” “That’s like the same price the other girls are charging!” “Yeah… And…?” I glanced at her beer gut, larger than my beer gut. “Sounds reasonable,” I shrugged, thinking back to what the jolt of electricity running through a bouncer’s taser’s tongs felt like. I couldn’t recall the exact sensation except to say I didn’t like it. “So you ready to go upstairs?” “Yeah, not quite yet, darling, but pretty soon. You know I just got here and I wanna relax before we start in on all the strenuous activities. I just got my head whupped on in a manner of speaking. In the back of a pick-up being that manner of speaking.” I put my arm around her meaty shoulders, settled her against me and grinned ear to ear. Five minutes later she asked “you ready to go upstairs?” “Not just now, baby. Real soon.” We drank the beers. I ordered two more. She rubbed my thigh. Cold Cash took the stage, did her thing. “You wanna go upstairs?” Samara asked. “Almost. But if you need to get up and circulate, I understand.” “No, I’m all right, right here.” I looked at her face, what wasn’t obscured by her hair shield. Her nose peeked out; it reminded me of my dad’s snout, bulbous and pock-marked. “I think you’re the prettiest girl here. No one else probably thinks so. But I do. You’re my favorite.” I squeezed her shoulder in drunken sincerity. “Ready for upstairs.” “Soon, mon cherry.” We sat there a moment, stock-still. “Soooooo…,” I said. “What was the last good book you read?” She stared at me a long time before she realized I was serious. “I don’t know… some romance novel, I guess.” “Oh. I just got done reading Umberto Eco’s ‘The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loanna’. It’s pretty good. Can’t touch Foucalt’s Pendulum, though. That’s my fave Eco book.” “You read to go upstairs?” “Pretty soon. What about my mustache? You like my mustache?” “Yeah, it’s a good one.” “Goddam right, it is.” “You ready for upstairs?” “Real close.” Big Dog stood up, holding the blonde’s hand. They stopped in front of us. Big Dog said “Me and Dishiki are going upstairs. If you’re gonna get yourself some, better do it now, cause when I get back down we’re gonna go out to Dream Girls and see what’s happening out there.” Samara got the happy eyes. “I’m not going upstairs with you,” I said, reclaiming my arm from around her shoulders. “Sorry.” Dishiki plucked the pimp hat off my head as though it were just an ordinary cap and placed it atop her own greasy hair. “We’ll catch you kids on the flipside.” I sat there, stunned. “You know you got a real big bald spot,” Samara said. The entire way to Dream Girls, Big Dog talked about Dishiki and how she only charged him twenty bucks for the fuck. “And she said she hated to have to charge me that.” Strippers always seemed to be cutting Big Dog deals, and, apparently, I was getting over charged as a result. “Dishiki wanted me to bust a nut in your pimp hat,” Big Dog said, “but I couldn’t do you that way.” I saluted him with the crown royal bottle. The night had turned on me. This time I didn’t cover the bottle neck with my thumb when I turned it up. “You’re a true friend, Big Dog.” “Sorry she sat on it though. There wasn’t much I could do about that. Still don’t know what happened to the feather.” “It’s all right.” We pulled into the parking lot of Dream Girls, walked inside where we had a whole other column’s worth of adventures. Leaving Dream Girls fifteen minutes later Big Dog said “let’s hit Fantasm’s one more time.” “I’ve got a wife to get home to,” I mumbled, still twitching from the tasing and the kidney punches. “It’s only 3 am. We still got time.” We entered Fantasm, paid the entry fee again. I wrote FUCK THIS LIFE on the registry. Samara was dancing on stage and the perverts were seated as far away as possible. I approached the stage, handed her two dollars and let her shake her busted titties in my face, feeling more depressed than I have since the Chicago Cubbies last post season appearance. When the music ended, Samara sheathed her breasts in zebra print and sat down next to me. I draped my arm around her shoulders. “You ready to go upstairs?” She asked. “Yeah. In a little bit.” |
 |